


our veins mapped together for awhile

by arabesque05



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:27:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabesque05/pseuds/arabesque05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What," laughs Ovechkin, when Zhenya remains quiet. "Do you think me unfit to be your rival? I am Alexander Ovechkin, you know. You should be honored."</p>
            </blockquote>





	our veins mapped together for awhile

**Author's Note:**

> originally for the rare-pairs meme [prompt](http://daisysusan.livejournal.com/243396.html?thread=1162180#t1162180): "Alex Ovechkin/Evgeni Malkin, we've got history, and it's not over."

i.

Zhenya's still playing fourth line and penalty kills at home when he's put on a line with Ovechkin on the national team. Ovechkin is already something of a national darling, by then, Russia's raw-hearted boyking. So of course Zhenya knows Alexander Ovechkin-- _everyone_ knows Alexander Ovechkin. He just doesn't expect Ovechkin to know him back. They're only a year apart, but Zhenya still feels like he is figuring out his limbs sometimes.

"I know all my rivals," Ovechkin informs him. He grins, jaunty and bare-toothed, as if that will somehow conceal the kindness behind his words.

"Oh," says Zhenya, quietly. Kindness is not a foreign thing to him, but it still takes him by surprise sometimes. His mother calls him a soft-heart. He is starting to think that she knows him too well.

"What," laughs Ovechkin, when Zhenya remains quiet. "Do you think me unfit to be your rival? I am Alexander Ovechkin, you know. You should be honored."

"Oh, I didn't mean--" Zhenya hurries to say. But the ridicule in Ovechkin's laughter does not sound like it is for him. Really, it does not sound like ridicule at all. It sounds only ridiculous.

"Haha!" crows Ovechkin when Zhenya ducks his head, smiling. "And look! You have _dimples_ ," and that is the first real memory Zhenya keeps of Alexander Ovechkin: a large boy with a large laugh, but largest of all--his heart.

 

ii.

"Coach was right, huh," says Sasha, sprawled out on the hotel bed closest to the bathroom, his head hanging off the edge of the bed. He peers upside down at Zhenya, who is just coming out of the bathroom. "You are a crier, aren't you?"

"I'm not," snaps Zhenya, and has to restrain himself from scrubbing a hand over his eyes. They still feel a little swollen.

"Uh-huh," says Sasha, and then rolls over onto his belly. He peers under the bed, possibly inspecting for dust bunnies or lost change. Voice a little muffled, he says, "Stop taking things so personally."

"Fuck you," says Zhenya--but still, horribly grateful that Sasha has looked away now. He climbs into the other bed, and draws the sheets up, and curls into himself, and says spitefully, "You never take anything personally."

That isn't true, of course. Sasha loves winning like it is a joy that lights up his entire soul, and is always angry to lose, as if he has been denied what is his by right. But Sasha is also able to shrug things off, or compartmentalize, or whatever magic he performs to stay forward-looking.

Zhenya only knows how to hate after a loss: everything, everywhere, and--sometimes, himself most of all.

On the other side of the room, Sasha stays quiet. Zhenya wants, very badly, to take back what he'd said--but that's never been in his nature, to retract words already said. Then he hears the rustle of fabric, and the light clicking off--and then a moment later, feels the press of a body on his own mattress, his own bedsheets being lifted up.

"What--" he says.

"Shut up," says Sasha, climbing into bed behind him. He tucks up close to Zhenya, presses a cold nose against the nape of Zhenya's neck. "You're being stupid, so just shut up." He waits, until Zhenya lays his head back on the pillows. "Look--we wear pads, don't we? We wear armor, don't we?"

"...Yes," says Zhenya.

"That's not just for your body, okay," huffs Sasha. "You guard your heart too, okay. And Jesus fuck, when you take off your armor, you take off the loss too, okay. We're Russian."

"Your arguments are terrible," Zhenya says, but he relaxes into the bed. "They make no sense."

"Shut up," says Sasha. "You're stupid. They make sense." But he keeps close, keeps steady, and the night passes warmer than it might have been.

 

iii.

In North Dakota, they break their hearts. In North Dakota, Zhenya looks at the boy who will apparently save North American hockey, and for the first time _sees_ him as the miracle everyone is heralding. In North Dakota, Zhenya curls an arm around Sasha's neck, and hides Sasha's face gainst his shoulder, and tells him, "Not here, Sasha. Don't let them see. Don't. We're Russian."

"Fuck," Sasha grits out, low and hurt and--so terribly wrong. Zhenya never wants to hear that voice again.

"No," he says. "You're still wearing armor, Sasha. You're all right. You're all right. Your heart's safe."

Sasha chokes out a wet laugh. "Aren't you a good student," he says into Zhenya's shoulder, and then pulls back, wiping roughly at his face. "Okay," he says, face set. "Handshakes," he says, and pulls away. He skates off.

Zhenya stares after him for a moment. Sasha's always been amazing at that--if not a quick recovery, then to do what needs done; as if some part of him really is impervious to hurt, because it is too busy triumphing over his very aliveness. Zhenya does not know how to recover so quickly, how to not pick at scabs or poke at wounds. Perhaps he will never be a hockey player like Sasha, reckless and whirlwind and fury unleashed, as if there is nothing but the puck and the ice and bodies to break.

Then, because it feels like what Zhenya has always done--he follows after Sasha.

 

iv.

When Ilyusha calls them "boys" like he is somehow so much older, Zhenya slants a look at Ovechkin and finds him similarly disgruntled-looking. "So," concludes Ilyusha, "kiss and make up, all right?"

"We don't need--" says Ovechkin.

"Really, it's none of your--" says Zhenya.

They both break off and look past Ilyusha's shoulder. He levels them a look, unimpressed. "No, you're right. It's not my business," he agrees. "Except when you make it my business. Like--well, Zhenya, when Seryozha calls me about his gray hairs. You know? Do you know about his gray hairs? Maybe you don't because he probably doesn't tell you, but he's not getting them from his other children--"

"I--" says Zhenya. "That's not--"

"'This isn't how I raised Zhenya,' he moans to me. 'I didn't raise him to be this kind of man,'" continues Ilyusha, implacable. "'But, Seryozha,' I say, 'he's not actually--'" When Ovechkin only succeeds in half-stifling his snort, Ilyusha turns to him sharply. "Oh? You don't think I get calls from Sanja? I know Washington loves you, but you think they love Sanja like that? You think Sanja can afford to lose friends like you can? He asks if it's all right to talk to me, which-- _are you still in grade sch_ \--"

"Sorry," Zhenya blurts out. It's one thing between him and Ovechkin, but if Seryozha, and Sanja, and Ilyusha...

He turns to Ovechkin. "I don't want to argue anymore. If I said anything--if you're angry about--"

Ovechkin huffs, annoyed. "You are still such a fucking soft-heart," he grumbles.

"Fuck off," says Zhenya. "I'm trying to--"

"--getting pissed for everyone but yourself," continues Ovechkin. Then he reaches over and shoves at Zhenya's shoulder. Zhenya stumbles a few steps to the side. When he recovers, Ovechkin says, "All right. Fine. Well, for the shootout, I wanted some help with..."

Ilyusha leans back, smiling pleased and arms folded over his chest in apparent satisfaction. Perhaps Zhenya _is_ still a soft-heart. It's all right, he thinks; he hadn't realized how much he'd missed Sasha until Sasha was returned to him. If being a soft-heart meant having Sasha again--that's probably a plus, however you looked at it.

 

v.

They don't room together in Sochi, but they are still on a line, and they sit together sometimes for meals, and their stalls are next to each other at the practice rinks.

"What?" Sasha, returning from speaking with reporters, fakes surprise when he finds Zhenya still seated on the bench in the locker room. "The afternoon is still young. I thought for sure you'd be fraternizing deep behind enemy lines right now."

Zhenya rolls his eyes. "I was waiting for you. We have had dinner together every night since we got here. Why are you like this."

"All right, all right," says Sasha, stripping off his gear. "Your sweet-talk has won me over. You may treat me to dinner tonight."

"Your girlfriend's strong," says Zhenya. "I don't know. I don't want to risk it."

"Fiancee," says Sasha, with a smile so easy it seems reflexive. He draws the word out long, as if letting it linger in his mouth. "She's my fi-an-cee."

Zhenya smiles back at that, the happiness so bright in Sasha's face. Sasha has never been a melancholy person; but--however meteoric his rise to greatness was, whoever his parents were, however easy he made hockey seem--life hasn't always been kind to him. Zhenya has never lost anyone the way Sasha has; he does not know if he could still find joy in so many things the way Sasha does, if he had.

But Sasha always did; and with Maria--even more so. There is a steadiness to his happiness now, a new sort of stability.

"That's good," he tells Sasha.

"You are happy for everyone else's good news, you ridiculous boy," replies Sasha. "I am not content at all. You promised we would be married on the same day, I remember. It was in the papers. What happened to that? I had planned our matching white tuxedos."

"That sounds like I am marrying you," observes Zhenya, wryly.

"Oh, if you could be so lucky," agrees Sasha. He strips off his shoulder pads, and hangs them on the locker-stall hook. Then he stops. He looks at the guard-pads, where they hang.

"What?" asks Zhenya.

"I don't know, just--" Sasha stops, apparently at a loss for words. He looks at the pads again, and then at Zhenya. "Hockey was always a game, you know? And then it was more than a game, it was like--my life, but. I just figured, that made my life all hockey. And I'd pretend--I'd pretend whenever I put my armor on, I was safe in hockey and in life and--....I don't know. I just remembered that. It sounds kind of childish now."

"Oh?" inquires Zhenya politely. "You mean you're not a child anymore?"

Sasha kicks at Zhenya's leg. "Fuck you, I was trying to have an emotional moment here."

"It's weird," agrees Zhenya. He regards Sasha's pads too: normal hockey pads, sweat stained, durable. "You told me before," he says. "I remember. In Finland, right? I cried," he laughs. "And you told me, you said--they're not just for my body. They'd guard my heart too--and I could take the pads off, and my heart would remain undefeated."

Sasha stares at him for a moment, and then looks away, cheeks red. "God," he says. "You...you were totally crushing on me, I bet. Why would you remember something ridiculous like that?"

"Everything you've ever said to me has been ridiculous," replies Zhenya. "Now go shower. You smell, and I'm hungry."

"You grew up wrong," says Sasha grimly, reaching for his towel. "I remember when you were all tiny and star-struck by me--"

"I was never star-struck by--"

"Alexander Mikhaylovich, you called me, all polite and--all right, all right, geez, I don't need a knee injury like you. I'm going," and he wanders off to the showers, humming tunelessly about the shchi he's expecting that night.

Zhenya leans back on the bench. It had been more than ten years ago, he thinks: Finland. And yet--still in a locker room, still in Team Russia jerseys, still on a line--more has remained the same than not. He's been lucky, he supposes. He closes his eyes and smiles at Sasha singing now about smetana and rye bread to absolutely no recognizable tune. To ten more, he thinks. And then another ten after that.

**Author's Note:**

> our veins  
> mapped together for awhile: 
> 
> we have traveled so much  
> for the territory between us  
> and still there is a long, long way. 
> 
> \--tim seibles


End file.
